Dystopian Perfection
by Stalker Fudge
Summary: You live on Hell Island long enough you just kind of assume that the worst years of your life are behind you. And then they come along and you realize all over again that you had no idea how bad things could get./Post S6 no flashsideways  Skate. Zombies.
1. Intro to Hell

I was reading Zombicorn today and I had the urge to write some Zombie-fiction. This is LOST distopia, post season 6, forgetting all about the flash-sideways, because I didn't really buy into that - and this is my story now isn't it? I of course do not own Lost, things would have ended quite differently if I had TRUST me. Lost belongs to the writers, produces, ABC, you know the drill.

This is Skate (Sawyer/Kate) if you don't like the pairing - or if you don't like Zombies - then this story probably isn't going to be for you is it? This is just an introduction, I hope that people will find it enjoyable, I don't invision it being one of my longer pieces, and I do promise to carry it out to the ending, because I sort of like the ending planned for this one a lot.

Please R&R, because Reviews make me a happy writer and happy writers tend to keep with it longer and get chapters out quicker. And well - Reading makes Reviews much better I find. ;)

* * *

You live on Hell Island long enough you just kind of assume that the worst years of your life are behind you. And then they come along and you realize all over again that you had no idea how bad things could get

I had separated myself from that life - I got Claire, moved her into my lavish off-island home and taught her how to become the only woman in her son's life. She caught on fast - it was a relief and it was the worst day of my life. I knew I couldn't stay - so I suggested we all take a trip to the zoo - then as they loaded up into the car I excused myself with a migrane and waved goodbye. Aaron was so excited to see the Lions he barely even muttered a goodbye. I watched Claire drive off, listening to the boy's animated descriptions of the path they were going to take this trip (I knew what he was saying because I heard it all before - I could probably word-for-word it if I could stomach thinking back on those times with Aaron long enough.) and as soon as the car dissapeared over the edge of the hill I went back in and gathered the bags I'd packed, left the note, and took off. Going on the run wasn't as easy as it had been before the plane crash, lots more people called in and reported sights of the celebrity fugitive who had skipped out of town three years before her probation period was over, but I was a much better runner too. I wasn't just running from the cops, I was running from the press - memories. Jack's lips, cracked and so utterly imperfect against mine in that last kiss - then there were all the kisses before that - the ones that had resided in that house I'd abandoned his sister and nephew in, trying to abandon them as well. The memories of his hands, wandering, fixing, loving, still follow me though, always chasing me, no matter how far I traveled or how fast I tried to get there, I could be certain that they would be waiting there, hiding someplace under my pillow or tucked between the covers, to pounce on me as soon as I let my guard down and fell asleep.

Well they used to, you know, back when I used to sleep. Now the only rest I get is when I pass out from sheer exhaustion and you don't ever dream in that kind of sleep. Or if you do, I never remember it when I finally come to. I'm never quite sure of how long I've been out, and honestly I know it's not the safest way to go about trying to survive this thing (ask me if I even believe that's a possibility anymore), but it's the way I do things. And honestly, if I'm going to be found and torn to pieces in my sleep - I'd rather be so exhausted that even the agony of muscles tearing and bones popping out of place - flesh giving way - wouldn't wake me up.

Yeah - completely unconciouss, emotionless and memory-less - that's the way I'd want to go. It'd make the transition that much easier. Falling asleep as the last human on earth and waking up to finally fit in with the crowd for the first time in my exsistance. To shamble on to - whatever end a zombie sees once there's no one left to put a bullet in their brain or to decapitate them anymore. Just like everyone else.

That's kind of what I'm doing now anyways isn't it?


	2. Chapter 1: At the Start

I have to apologize for the long wait, I intended to have a chapter up for Valentine's day, but a lot of personal issues kept getting in the way. I'm back in a groove though, and I've got some time, so I'm planning on getting a few chapters first drafted at least with my open schedule. More reviews and responses to stories always make me want to post faster as well - so that's something to keep in mind. ;)

Disclaimer: I don't own Lost, it would've ended a lot differently if I had.

* * *

_"The human voice is the organ of the soul." - Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_

_

* * *

_

I remember when the earth's terrain, the body's of those who didn't rise again, or who had been exterminated by those ensouled with fight left in them, was difficult to travel over - physically and emotionally. When I used to go out of my way to walk around the bodies grouped together, avoid the individual limbs and miscellaneous body parts strewn about the road ahead of me. What a sentimentalist I used to be back then. Now when I'm on the move I set my eyes straight ahead on my path and climb over bodies piled over each other. I don't even really notice the way that the body compresses on itself, the sound of brittle bones crunching or the squelching sound of the infected blood being forced out of it's casing, not anymore.

I used to feel bad about clambering over the dead like that - I used to feel bad about killing the infected ones. I'd run as fast as I could, hide, stay quiet and hope that they would just walk past me, I'd only swing at one if it was an emergency. My weapon of choice was an axe - something I'd gotten out of one of those 'In case of emergency' boxes at a hospital originally - until I could get into an outdoors-men store to get a real quality axe. Not a gun, a gun made too much noise and drew them close. Though at one point I'd locked myself into an old library and found myself with plenty of time to read, and I'd found this book of a wide collection of quotes and run across something from this old guy - Henry Wadsworth Longfellow - who talked about humans souls being connected to their ability to speak (It was, you know, more elegant, but then again I bet the old man wasn't running from a horde of flesh eating creatures that had all but wiped out the earth's population, if it was I'd have more of a bone to pick with history for THAT cover-up.) and it sort of rearranged my priorities. If you've ever has the misfortune of encountering an undead, you'd know that they don't moan out the words 'brains' and shamble about in a hunt. They move slow and silent for the most case. Sometimes you can hear this low, guttural sound leaving their throats, that's when they're eating, it's a horrifying sound, being so close, hearing death's victory song echoing in your eardrums, haunting you. There's this sort of grunt they make when they die, it doesn't really sound pained, not even resembling a protest to having their heads ripped from their shoulders, or the initial impact of a bullet, just noise for noise sake. Not a voice - that leaks out the moment they change. The voice - the soul. I stopped looking at them like they were people with infections and started recognizing them for what they were - animals. A plague-An infection that ripped out the soul and stole a humans face. After that I became much more of an adept hunter - back to a hunting store - equip with rifles and bullets, and went to town, curing infections with a bullet to the head, watching it ooze from it's hiding place. I survived.

Maybe I'm getting a little ahead of myself though. I should probably have started from the beginning, it's difficult to remember a time when the earth wasn't run by Infections, even more difficult to drudge up the memory of when it all started - how it all started. But for the sake of documenting a history for future life, if there's any to be had after this, I do it now.

It's amazing how dumb the justice system could be sometimes. I cleaned out my bank accounts before leaving, raised red flags, but by the time it got through and was reported, I was long gone anyways and close to being reported missing anyways. Then they assume that with all that cash I'm going to be surrounding myself with /that/ kind of life, lap of luxury, or at the very least not settle for the rodent-infested hotels that I had always called home during the first years of running. While they were scrounging about, ripping into rooms of the privileged citizens who housed up at the Ritz and other high-end temporary dwellings, I was off living it up with three-channel TVs, bed sheets that got washed maybe once a year, and those famously tasteful coin-operated vibrating beds.

I got a few makeovers, haircuts and dye jobs, practiced a few different makeover styles, eventually I decided to go as far as to invest in some of those colored contacts (in order to do that I had to shack up with some guy for about a month, asked him to have them sent to his place because I didn't want them going to a hotel, I even let him help pick them out. I think his name was Steve... it could have been Scott though. I got a honey brown color for practicality, and a crimson red pair - because Steve/Scott was a big fan of some ridiculous vampire saga where the vampires had red eyes, it was sort of a fantasy of his, and a condition for my ordering the contacts... freaky little man he was.

At the end I was donning the brown contacts, hair bleached blonde, red tips, cut up into a curled bob style, I was wearing ridiculous heels, red with straps wrapping about my feet, curling about my ankles, this red halter dress that cut off about mid-thigh, fit like a second skin, and yes, I was about to go out with the man who had supplied the diamond necklace that hung about my neck and those matching earrings that danged down, my newest cover boy. We weren't going anyplace fancy really, just his place, I was ready to take a break from the run-down life and stay a night or two with Mr. Warm Body, I stopped off to find some champagne to bring along, resting against the counter while I twisted the bottle about, twirling it around between my fingers while he checked the storage room for a better year than the 1965 I had brought to the front of the store - not a good enough year for a girl like me apparently. I was almost considering just taking the year and leaving the store already, but I wasn't in the mood to run again this fast - and I really didn't want a new makeover, I wasn't looking to go any shorter on hair, and all the dye jobs were starting to get to me, so instead I waited as patiently as I could muster for the return of the man with a new bottle.

The door chimed as another prospective customer came in and I didn't even flinch or glance in the direction of the person who entered, his footsteps were slow and purposeful and when he reached me he let his hand fall to my back, slowly slipping about to rest on my stomach before he tugged be back to press against him a bit, his touch was sensual, and as always my breath got caught in my throat and I closed my eyes and chuckled. "You can't tell me you didn't cheat this time."

"I swear it baby. I gave you your head start and everything, didn't have you followed or nothing. I just know what to look for." His face buried in my hair, his hands clamping on my waist and I just enjoyed that warm breath puffing out on my neck, arching back slowly, my head falling back on his shoulder, still keeping my eyes closed as I set the bottle back down against the counter decidedly and I could just hear that smile that came over his face, feel his gaze travel and then one of his hands moved up to grasp the necklace. "Guessing this isn't a way for you to spoil yourself is it?"

"Mmmm. A gift from the newest in a line of benefactors." I spoke with a slight smirk.

"I see… poor sap. I'm afraid that his investment was wasted."

I shrugged my shoulders at his words. "It's cubic zirconium anyways. It's not like he's out too much." I felt his hands turning me about and I finally allowed my eyes to slip open, arms slowly moving up to wrap about the back of his neck, leaning up on my toes to press a soft kiss up against his lips, and then I had to pull back, because _soft _kisses weren't our thing, it couldn't be, the both of us had tried love, had love, and we knew it wouldn't work. Who would risk something like that again when you found something that actually worked? So I had to chuckle, moving into him a bit more, and playing up the sensual angle again. "You better be staying someplace nice, if you expect me to spend my night with you instead."

"Who said anything about spending the night? Maybe this time I'm actually here to take you in, turn you in to the feds and get you locked up like the criminal you are Austen."

I rolled my eyes at him and shifted to lift myself up onto the counter, drawing him close by wrapping my legs about his waist and closing them more, urging him towards myself while my arms slipped about his neck. "Never happen Ford." I moved one of my hands up to tangle in his hair, absently thinking that he needed another cut, toying with the idea of doing it myself, but that would involve hanging out with him a lot longer out of bed than usual, and that wasn't our style either. One night together, then I skip town and hide again and wait until him and his bountiful contacts locate me again and bring him right back to my bed. It was the way that things worked, it kept me sane and in contact with someone, and it gave him that edge of danger that he was constantly seeking out. Once again I had to cut off thoughts and leaned forward to catch his lips, my hand balling into a fist as I clung to his hair and held him there in a full out kiss, lips parting and groaning out for him to give more, and he obliged easily enough, exploring my mouth, hands at my back, holding me painfully tight as if he were going to keep me from escape this way - not that I'd ever run before a release with him, but still, it's nice to remember that someone wants you around. It was nice to feel needed, even if it was only for a few hours.

I don't have a memory of how we got from Point A to Point B. Half the time I feel like we just willed ourselves from one place to the next. The counter disappeared and then I was tangled in the overabundance of comforters at the Hilton, losing my own soul over and over again with a man that dedicated those moments to reminding me that I was alive. Some of the last moments of his life.

I don't remember falling asleep - but I remember waking up, feeling completely rested and content, because that was the way it always happened. The only place Jack's kisses and Jack's touches couldn't follow me was into Sawyer's bed. It was the kind of thing that made you want to burrow a place there by his side and never leave, but that puts you at risk of getting someone else's kisses and touches too much, starting to need them too. If there was one thing I was always certain of, it was that I couldn't afford to need James Ford. So that's why I did it, every time we fell into bed together, I woke up, disentangled myself from the sheets and his arms, and took a shower. I'd dress and then we'd set the ground rules, sometimes he could start off looking from here, sometimes he had to go back to LA and then start all over again. It was a sort of way to show how easily I could be tracked down, mostly it was a game for us, two broken souls just looking for distraction.

When I came out of the shower, toweling off and searching for my shirt, he was sitting up in bed, watching the bathroom door with that look on his face and I had to groan softly, shaking my head at him. "No, Sawyer. Not now… not this time. Please…"

"I didn't say anything Freckles." He raised his hands up, but that disappointment was clear on his face as he reached down to the ground to grab his pants to slip them on.

"It's just not a good idea." I dropped the towel before pulling my shirt on over my head, turning back to face him and tilted my head to the side. "I like the way things are right now. Isn't that enough?" He didn't say anything and I reached back to pull the ends of my soaked hair from where it was tucked into the back of my shirt, grabbing the towel to dab at my hair. "You can't run with me Ford, you got a little girl to take care of."

"When I see her." He shot me a look as I hit the sore spot, getting up to search the room for his own shirt. "'Sides Freckles, girl's got a Ma that she loves, takes real good care 'a her. They got along fine without me before, ain't like I'm gonna take the money I gave 'um to live offa."

"Don't-"

"Who's taking care of you?" He ignored me and kept making his point, looking up to me and raising an eyebrow. We both just kind of let that sit in the air, silently looking at each other and that time I almost cave in. I almost crawled into that bed again and asked him to take care of me. Almost.

"It wouldn't be you." My voice cracked as I struggled to find it again, struggled to force out those words. "If I wanted to be taken care of- if I let someone… it would never be you." I kept my eyes on his, not letting myself look away, I couldn't back down, I needed more time away from him to clear my head and heart of anything I was starting to try to build up with him.

He didn't back down from that gaze though, just looked disappointed in my answer and moved to pull the door of the hotel room open, tilting his head to the side with a heavy sigh. "It always has been." His voice was simple, just stating a fact. It wasn't an argument though, an invitation to stay - it was his final punch, his goodbye. My heart was in my throat as I shook my head, but I couldn't get anything else out. I moved to start to leave again, but he caught my arm and I let him pull me to a stop, still silent. "Clem's birthday's next week. Gonna go home and be a Daddy… I'll start looking again by the weekend."

I cleared my throat and took a deep breath. "I'll be running again before the day's out." It was our agreement for things to be the same as they had been, for now. Change was in the air, a big change. Either he would win, or we both would lose, and I had no hope for the former, I couldn't hope for it. All I could do was nod to him and dig in my pocket to pull out the small box and offer it to him with a sad smile. "Tell Clem Aunt Kate misses her." I made sure my hand didn't touch his as I dropped the box into his hand, watching the way he opened it to look at the locket I'd bought for his daughter for her birthday. I waited for his nod before I nodded back and turned to leave him there once again. Always leaving.

I made my way to the kid's house, snapping the cubic zirconium back into place and busying myself with that task of another guy to wash out the Sawyer from my system. I moved up to the doorway of his large house and found the door slightly ajar, figuring one of his cleaning ladies had forgotten to close it. I had to stop and think for a minute to remind myself of the kid's name. (It's not something I'm proud of). "Allen?" I grasped the banister and tried to peer upstairs as I called out to him.

That was when I heard the crash.

* * *

Hope you enjoyed it! Please R'n'R!


	3. Chapter 2: Worst Day Ever

Hey guys! I'm back again, I do apologize for how long it took to update, I've been struggling for time and inspiration since I started working and have significantly less time to sit alone to focus on writing a story. On top of things, after sending it to my best friend / occasional beta, I had to step back away from it because it hadn't come out to the quality that I had wanted and was frustrated. Thanks to her working her magic and pointing out how I could better it and providing with some new inspiration (and some official story mapping-all the way to the final chapter to help shape it completely), I managed to edit it all out and have it ready to update today.

[If only I could have her beta my openings as well.]

Disclaimer: I don't own LOST, I don't own these characters. I don't own Zombies. I'm just tossing them all together and having loads of fun with it.

Hope you enjoy it!

* * *

_My head snapped to the side at that first clamber, towards the kitchen and my heart was in my throat because something just felt wrong. I glanced up the stairs again, raising my voice to try to get myself heard. "Allen?" My eyes didn't leave the kitchen door, worried about what had caused that crash - if anyone was hurt. Allen didn't answer and curiosity finally got the best of me as I started to walk towards the kitchen. "Hello?" I reached out to touch the door and heard more clanging, and then this low sounding growl. The growl gave me pause and I withdrew my hand, just looking at the door, my legs ached and I wanted to turn and run, but I was just frozen in place, trying to shake it off. My reaction was just intensified, I was just looking for an out. Odds were that I had created the noise in my mind to try to avoid this night with Allen, betraying this nothing I had with Sawyer. _

_Then more clanking, this strange beat of movement and a growling - sort of moaning type of noise? I didn't really get it. One hand on the door I was frozen in place, and then all the wind was knocked out of me and I was thrown forward, knocked from behind onto the swinging door and through into the kitchen on top of a mess of pans. There was this weight on my back that took me a few seconds to decipher it as a human body. There was this drip on the back of my neck, a warm liquid and I groaned, shifting to try to turn, attempting to urge the body off of my back, as my head tilted back I heard the sickening growl, a clicking of the throat almost and the sound seemed to kick me into gear almost, I brought my hand to my chest, curling it up and then tossing it back, weight on my elbow as I jabbed it into the ribs of whoever was on top of me, tossing them off and flipping about, hand reaching up to wipe the back of my neck, finding that thick, warm liquid and pulling it in front of my face - jet black. _

_I looked up and that was when I saw my very first of them. A scream got caught in my throat and I just watched as it started to raise itself back up to a higher level, just coming at me - a low rumble sounding from it's general direction and I tried to crawl back, as far from it as I possibly could, mind struggling to think of escape, but all I could manage was a horrified fixation._

_Soft material, the real flowing kind, bright crayon yellow - the sort of color that's always reminded me of those drawings I used to do in kindergarten that would cover the fridge, images of grassy fields, playful moments, being smiled down upon by that unrealistically bright, happy sun that always took up the full upper left corner of the page. This sun sort of flitted about at every tiny movement. It was splattered by the pinks and blues and purples of imaginary flowers, just colored onto the page randomly by the young artist, thirsting for color, for innocence. But it was damaged, somehow the work of art - the flowered sun, had these long holes, like maybe the artist had pressed down too hard, not had it on sturdy enough background and ripped their paper? But what was the black for? It didn't belong on the canvass, so dark, almost like it was consuming the color - or working its way to that. It soaked, painted, pushed me to explore, to see the way the waves at the bottoms tattered, were bathed in streaks of dirt, tainted by the earth. Knobs for knees peaked from the shreds of material, pale, drained of color, sort of just - grey. That discolored flesh was dry, could tell that from the way it flaked and cracked and that - goo - oozed out. Up more - over the stomach, the arms, that upper body - It was certainly, at one point, a human. A woman by the shape of it, the dark strands of hair thin and hanging in clumps, dead follicles had stripped the head nearly bare already. And those eyes. The eyes were milky white, like they were blind, but they were looking directly at me, trained on me and that was their only goal. Me. _

_(Hey some of that sounded pretty poetic didn't it? Doomsday comes and suddenly everyone's got opinions, got stories, illustrations to tie it to the past - better days. Doomsday - heh - gotta wonder… who forgot to punch in the numbers this time? [You remember that… the little outdated computer with the number sequence that 'saved the world'?] Alright, stop trying to judge me, I never claimed to be funny, and apocalypses don't generally birth great comedies. Or so I've lived.)_

_It didn't make much noise really, it had been silent until it tackled me, it growled in attack mode and as I kicked it off it announced it's displeasure, but all in all it was this silent menacing foe. Silent as it shifted and pushed itself up to it's knees, up to it's feet, moving forward again with no hint of hesitation, a goal and nothing to hold it back from meeting that goal. I was just sitting there, just watching. Like I was waiting. Silent as I finally felt those tears on my face. Silent as I whispered his name, not Allen's, not Jack's, but Sawyer's. Sawyer was so close - Sawyer would have a gun to threaten off this - thing. Sawyer would make everything safe - okay again. It was just a whisper though, a prayer, because he was already gone. He was too far away. I put my hands behind myself, starting to push off, and that was when I felt the drop, warm, on my hand. It wasn't the same black substance that coated my neck from the few seconds the thing had been on top of me, this was normal blood. My blood. Fresh. And I felt a sob catch in my throat, shaking my head slowly. "No. No please…"_

_Then it turned it's head and growled to the corner of the room, and the sound jumped me and caused me to turn my head to the other figure in the room, the originator of the noises from the kitchen, I presumed. And there it was, another one of these creatures. I didn't note if it was a woman or a man, I didn't note anything except for that crimson drip from it's mouth, the way that it's hands clung to Allen's kid neighbor. Carmen? Chris? Cody? I think it started with a C, could be one of those funky - actually starts with a 'k', just sounds like 'c' names I guess. I was in shock, shivering, watching the kid sputter and cry, his arm torn into, a big chunk out of the top of his head, and he was beyond help - seconds from death. This kid - probably about twelve, maybe thirteen, maybe a really big eight or a tiny fifteen year old, does it really matter now anyways? (spoiler alert - he's dead now.) I knew him because the couple times I'd been by, he'd managed to swing in and try to find reasons to stay - a crush. Now he was looking at me - through me - in agony that was numbing away, and in those young eyes I saw that desire, that need for death to come quickly. Think I heard my name escape Carmen-Chris-Cody's lips, but it could've been my imagination too you know, I didn't respond anyways, there wasn't a point. But the thing, it was looking at me, and the newer thing - the one who had attacked first, was laying claim. It saw me first._

_It was going to do to me what the other one did to the kid. It was going to - and I couldn't even finish that thought. I couldn't accept that the thing was eating _C-the kid. This thing was going to eat me. I didn't feel the scream rising from my throat, but I heard it. And if it didn't knock both of the things attentions towards me, I might not have ever known that it had actually come from my direction. I muttered a curse and then shoved to my feet, twisting around and pressing back out the door, I needed out. (And yes, I left him there, the kid was as good as dead already anyways, don't judge me unless you've been there. And if you have - well - you know don't you? You can't judge me either.) I heard them moving in the kitchen, knocking over pans and breaking fine china to get to the door, to follow me out, and there seemed to be a bit of a scuffle between the two - as if the fresh meet were more interesting than a dying boy - like I was worth fighting over. And really - I had never been more disgusted by that thought - being fought over - than I was right then.

I couldn't breathe - it wasn't like I'd been put though much of a workout at that point, but I felt exhausted, winded. I couldn't hardly breathe, moving towards escape was the only thing on my mind, though as soon as I pushed open the front door I froze and looked out to find a couple more things out in the garden. I backed up quickly, slamming the door in my attempt to not be noticed (because really, that loud noise of a door slamming was the epitome of inconspicuousness wasn't it?) I turned on my heel and ran right directly into him. Allen. Or - the "it" formerly known as Allen.

(Like literally - directly into him. And if you've ever had the misfortune of being that close, actually pressed up against them, able to smell the death, trying so hard to keep your mouth closed, not to breathe it in, not to let it get it's arms around you, or worse, it's teeth into you… well you know my terror.)

My hands worked their way in-between us, and it was the way his arms wound about me, clutched me instantly, tightly. I was more than just a meal, I was his. All his and just something about the silent way his head bent, the way the only noise he made was that deep inhale of his nose, pressed right against my hair, taking in my sent. His arms tightened and I choked back a scream, suppressed a sob, and pushed. Apparently it wasn't the reaction he was looking for, wasn't the one I was supposed to give, it's not like he told me in so many words (remember, no soul - no voice), but the resulting hiss transferred his message just fine. He squeezed tighter, head dipping, sniffing down my neck, and there was something territorial in the way he moved.

(I've seen it a couple times from another end - hiding in the shadows while it happens to other people. The way zombies approach a simple meal - some sustenance to meet that hunger that never seems to deplete with them - and the way that a zombie will approach their [ex]-lover. There's something, almost romantic, about those deaths. Ceremonious at the very least. As far as I can see, it's the last person that a zombie ever thought of as 'theirs'. I've seen female zombies going after male humans, I've seen male zombies going after female humans. But the worst - the absolute worst - is the adult zombies going after children. Their own children. That is one of the few things that still make me cringe in this world, seeing the young ones, knowing the only reason they're zombies and not dead are because their parents got to them first.)

Usually the problem for people in this situation tends to be the fear, the horror of this person they love doing this to them, loving them and then suddenly, they've become a meal. Luckily for me, I couldn't have cared less about Allen - no - Mr. Warm Body. So I didn't take it calmly. I thrashed, I fought, and when he heard the shambled mess of the other two - the ones from the kitchen - coming along, it distracted him enough for me to break the hold. The scream that ripped from his throat made my ears ring, this horrible guttural sound. He turned on me instantly and started towards me. I moved, I turned face and ran, because Allen was a hunter, and I knew where his guns were.

And I knew my survival hinged on me getting to that room before he got his hands back on me. I wasn't thinking of alternative weapons at the time, wasn't thinking of drawing a crowd - though honestly I should probably be thankful the door was locked, I was in no state to face as many of them as would've come at a gunshot's call. At the time though, reaching that door, no give whatsoever, felt like a death sentence. I let out one small whimper and then turned to run again, faster. I didn't know where I was going, but I knew it had to be far from Allen, and it had to be fast.

I wasn't thinking of a saving grace when I reached the basement and tossed myself recklessly down a staircase in attempt at survival. I wasn't thinking of saving grace until I lifted my head, pushed my body up on aching arms and saw the wood stove, the chords of wood.

The axe.

More adrenaline hit my system and I got to my feet, yanked the handle as hard as I could, pulling the axe head from the piece of wood, turned towards the sound of stumbles. Zombies aren't the most coordinated of killers, but that doesn't deter them (Really, it's a trait that I would admire if it weren't being used with the soul purpose of ending my life.). Allen took the tumble down the rotting staircase like a trooper, not bothering to get back to his feet, taking to his hands and knees, advancing on me that way, scurrying like some horrifying human rodent. But the position had one advantage.

You have no idea (then again, maybe you do) how easy it is to lift an axe and embed it deep into the skull of a "person" who only comes up to your waist.

* * *

R&R please! It really helps to encourage me that it's all worth it.

As long as I get reviews I promise a new chapter up by Friday!


	4. Chapter 3: The Food Situation

Back again - Friday update, just like I promised there would be. Unfortunately this chapter didn't make it to my occasional beta reader because it's been a bit of a busy, tedious week, so I apologize for something that hasn't been viewed out of writers goggles (kind of like the intro and the first chapter.) I tried to go back over it a couple times for you. (Still sort of new to using a beta anyways.)

If you want to keep up with me to see updates on when I'm working on writing, when I run into issues that will keep me from posting, and other little tidbits (like current song inspirations... other writing related things) You can follow my twitter account here: /#!/SFudgeWrites

My Twitter is also the best way to get in touch with me if you'd like to ask a question (and get a direct answer). Anything you want to say basically - just reply me and I'll for sure get back to you.

Disclaimer: I do not own Lost or it's characters, because if I did the show would've ended very differently.

* * *

Yeah, yeah, I know what you're thinking. 'Katherine Anne Austen, somewhere in your recounting of this story, you've lied to us. Did you get the axe you used to use to take care of the infected from an 'in case of emergency' box, or from that pile of wood in the ex's basement?' Which - hey - would make sense for you to think of a seasoned killer like myself. Unfortunately I was so terrified and disgusted after that first initial kill - left shocked and staring down at him - that I left that axe embedded right there into the back of his skull and took off running. Had I kept the axe I could have avoided several close calls that first day, it was eerie how well they could just sense you there. It still is.

Can't think about that now, I just don't have the time. Climbing over body after body, ducking into building after building just searching for some kind of food. There's no weight loss program quite like the constant go-go-go and the surprising (or not so surprising, depending on how you look at it) scarcity of food in this world. Yeah there's no one to prepare the food - kill animals, plant plants - but there's also a lot less people to be eating it. And you'd think that at least here in America there'd be an overabundance of junk food just lying around from the obsession with it, but no, I've gone almost a full week without a scrap to eat before. There's nothing I hate more than that painful churn of the stomach walls pressing together, trying to digest thin air. (Yeah you read that right - I hate my own hunger more than I hate the zombies that ran this world into the ground. More than whatever brought this on. At least I do when I'm hungry. Which I am.)

Shops aren't that easy to come by anymore either. Early looters were a bit too reckless; 'End of the world? Let's tear into the food supply. Let's all race to the store and gather up everything we'll need to survive.' And yeah, it sounds like a smart enough move right? One should be prepared. The only problem was that masses of people are headed for supplies weren't quiet, and shops quickly became a zombie's favorite buffet. The hordes would swarm in and every single one of those early rushers either ended up a zombie, or a corpse on the ground, depending on the size and strength in the person before the undeadness fell upon them. Back then, some brave stragglers would wait to hear the screaming, and then set the buildings on fire, burning up every human and zombie in the place.

Oh yeah - and also all the food. That was gone up in smoke too. Literally.

'Oh but Kate, go back would you? You mentioned something about zombie size and strength? What does that have to do with this world?' Well - as a personal favor to the new history books - I'll answer that question. If you ever had a shred of decency (or brains) in you, you'd rather wind up one of the corpses than one of the infected. You just do, because there's so much unknown about them, obviously something of you has to be left inside the walker, otherwise how would lovers and family members know the specific pieces of meat that they want to go after the most? And who wants to be trapped inside one of those things for - however long they'll last? And if that's your mindset, then you want to try your best to avoid the little ones. Little - skinny, short, just - weak looking in general. (Mind you, I'd include children in this category, but I've never actually seen a child zombie making a kill before, they usually relegate themselves to snacking on corpses that the others are done with it seems. Still, don't get too close to ANY zombie. Just don't do it. Or - do if you want, but if that's your cup of tea please, make it easy on me and go for the big ones.) The little ones don't devour as much. Yes, they're always hungry, always on the hunt, but they seem to be worried about filling up, snacking a little on a body, just enough to spread the infection, and then leaving it behind to change. Once the bloodstreams been infected with the disease (for lack of a better word - unless you liked undeadness - which in all honesty, works for me too) other zombies won't touch you, they'll walk around you, giving you your own space as if you're already one of them. And trust me, from the looks on the faces of the people who had just been infected, that's gotta be the most terrifying feeling in the entire world. Suddenly you're not human enough to be food anymore, and you're not zombie enough to want to tear into another person yet. Yet. I shudder just thinking about it.

The big ones, yeah, it's gruesome, and not always quick. But at least it's always fatal, you don't have to wonder at all about how it's going to feel, not even a split second between runner and chaser. You're just - gone. Free from the overrun world. Dead.

I didn't stop walking of course, I kept moving. That was when I noticed that I was about to have the best treat I could imagine ever having in this world. Ahead of me I could see it, a nice big grocery store, doors frozen open, the automatic doors broken for - who knows how long - and I have to take a deep breath and steel myself, remember I couldn't get too excited, just because the place wasn't burnt down or anything, because all of the stuff that hasn't gone bad could be gone - or contaminated if dumb humans had been attacked in there and tried to kill zombies without protecting the life source first. I shouldered one of my guns - the big rifle, feeling it smack familiarly against the knapsack full of ammo slung over my shoulder. One gun pressing into the small of my back from where it's stashed in the back of my jeans, the other 9mm is clutched protectively in my hand, close and always on guard.

I knew that I should be fine walking right into the building, so long as no one had recently died in there that is. I vaguely remember horror movies and different stories, people shouldn't just walk inside, but what those writers never seemed to grasp (or just didn't know, unless of course, there was a very evil cover up I never heard about) was that these monsters don't have the slightest clue as to where to find people, where they'd go to. The only time a zombie goes inside is when they hear a commotion, when they smell a blood - basically when a person is dumb enough to do something to alert the zombies of their presence. Zombies don't seek the warmth or comfort of a shelter, they seek food - human flesh. They walk the streets, walk fields, walk anywhere outside, and wait to find signs of people - of food - and then they go in for the attack. A constant search, never fulfilled. Sometimes they get subdued in an area, if there are enough fresh dead bodies to munch away at, but always, as soon as the freshness wears off or there's nothing but bones left they're on the hunt again. (On the hunt, by the way, might seem like a generous term for that aimless wandering they do, but considering the amount of US they've taken out compared to the amount of THEM there are on this earth… yeah.)

I check the aisles anyways, just sort of toying with my gun, but as I expected; nothing. (Told you so) Which meant it was time to get my hands on as much non-perishable food as I could fit in my bag full of ammo. The canned food comes first, and luckily it seems like I've hit the jackpot, I check the dates and settle my bag on the ground, pulling it open and laying can after can inside, it's a slow process because you've got to find a way to manage the natural clinking, situate things so they won't make noise on the run. That was the downfall of a lot of people I'm sure, people who were all prepared to go, good shots and everything, but they'd allow for too much noise on the run.

Noise, in this world, is a killer in two ways:

First, it draws their attention. Zombies are attentive. The only thing that they are really concerned about is eating, and so all they have is dedicated to that need to eat - to find and acquire that fuel that they need (do they need it really? I mean - would zombies fade away to nothing, drop dead on their own, if there were no more people to feed on?) to keep going. Any little noise could be the one that draws them close. It's their most heightened sense. And of course smell comes after that - but only for human blood. Though that's not what we're talking about is it? We're talking about the dangers of clinking cans and what it means for you and your survival in the new world. (Namely: Nothing good)

Second, it makes hearing their approach almost impossible, even if you think you're doing a good job of listening for any signs of them above it. Now I stand with the people who called them 'Zombies' from the start, no other way to really think of them, they were the closest real manifestations of the fictional monsters anyone would've seen. Honestly you would've thought that all those writers and directors had somehow gotten insight from this grim future to stage their books and films off of. But other people, this small family of five that I ran into and had a mutual surviving with until they were eaten- (used to happen a lot the first few weeks. I'd look for others and try to stick with them. It never turned out well. Eventually I'd settle for trying to show them my own survival skills at a pit stop, and making sure to take off in the opposite direction as them when we went on the move) had named them 'The Silents'. I remember giving the dad a strange look as it left his lips, telling him they were 'Zombies'. And boy, did I get a lecture on how 'Zombies were fictional monsters. The Silents are a very real threat.' Because their Zombie attributes were one thing, but their silence was their most deadly aspect. If you weren't on your toes one hundred percent of the time, you would be taken out before you ever heard one coming. They move with a stagger, slow and creeping, but it's not usually like a dragging, there's only the slightest hint of crunching as they walk - and that's what you have to listen for. No sound comes from their bodies until they've got their kill - until they're opening their mouths to devour a new meal. (Sure, Silents was a good name for them and all - but Zombie is more comforting. More familiar. I know how to deal with a Zombie. Have you ever heard of 'The Silents Apocalypse'? Didn't think so.)

I finished with the cans and slipped the drawstring at the top of the bag closed, gently bringing it across to rest on her back again, headed towards another aisle and let my mind wander a bit to the front of the store. To a treat I could only dream remained up there where people used to roll around that ridiculous paper in their hands, wait to hand over something they steal, cheat, and kill for, so quick and easy. (Yeah that's right, I took a shot at capitalism while I was fantasying about chocolate. What of it?)

I gathered a few of those packets of ramen to carry with me, they don't taste like much special crunched up and mixed dry, but they're food. And of course those canned veggies are available and I figure it'd do well to take a couple. Once my bag was sufficiently heavier than I should probably allow it to get (for fear of the uncertainty of when another viable food source will come up - I'm still human, so sue me), I made my way to the front and raided the chocolate stash. It wouldn't keep if I traveled with it, so I just grab a little basket and toss in a few chocolate bars before making my way back to grab some veggies and a can of some kiddies' spaghetti and meatballs on my way to the back of the store once more. (And for anyone still paying attention, who still cares, yes, I was at one point a vegetarian. Now I'm not. Deal.) I slip open the employees only door, half expecting to be stopped and reminded it's a restricted area before I scoff it off and make my way back further into the room, making my way to the break room to set up for the meal - as long as I'm here though, it might as well be for the night at least, a little break from the trip to nowhere.

I set up my feast and of course indulge myself in having desert first. A Kit Kat bar, a few Reese's (all three of the variety: milk, dark, and white chocolate), Three Musketeers, the Thingamajig, and the Million Dollar Bar. By the time I'm finished with the rich chocolate, I barely have enough of an apatite left to pull open the can of whole green beans and knock back most of that. I set the leftovers to the side and got up to pace the floor. Not sure how long I paced, but when my legs started to hurt I realized I was wasting perfectly good resting time.

One more check on the door. Nothing here, nothing knew I was hiding out. Barricade the door with a chair (you don't need to mutter under your breath, I know that's a useless tactic, but it's a self comfort thing.) and push everything I own under a small table in the corner of the room. One more check around the nearly empty room and I let myself move from one end of the table to the other, back and forth, lifting it and guiding it back to the wall.

One more glance about the room.

Then I slide under the table, my back to the wall, and let myself close my eyes and succumb to exhaustion (the first time in months I'd fallen asleep without having to pass out first).

And with the sleep, comes the dreams.

Jack's face. Jack's hugs, Jack's kisses, Jack's caresses…

Sawyer. Sawyer's arms, strong and supportive. Sawyer's mouth, starved and devouring my skin - my lips - my soul. Sawyer's-

Screams. My screams. Fears and Pains and-

Zombies. Walking, reaching, grabbing. Zombies trying to eat me.

While I scream. Zombies trying to tear my arm from it's socket and-

Not a dream.

My eyes snapped open and I realized the screams were real. The pain was real. And that zombie that was yanking my groggy body out from under the pseudo protection of the table over me? Yeah - that was real too.

* * *

Please R'n'R! It helps inspire me to keep on writing.

Also - a question for reviewers: Do you guys like the idea of a weekly update on a specific day? I feel like it's a manageable pace, so long as I keep getting reviews to inspire me to keep writing.


	5. Chapter 4: At the End

Sorry I didn't get this out on Friday, I ended up working much more this week (on my short week) than I usually do. But I did get it out this weekend. Points? Anyone? Okay.

Really appreciate my faithful reviewers. You guys seriously make my life. :) You at least make getting this story out of my mind and onto the internet worth the time. :)

Again as a disclaimer: I do not own LOST and it's characters. Basically, if you recognize it - I don't own it.

* * *

So where were we? Oh yeah - the screaming and the fear and the pain.

I knew the second that my eyes flew open and I looked at the monster - foaming at the mouth, chomping at the bit, just sort of giddy in the only way the Silent Infectious Zombies ever get giddy anymore - that this was the end of my story. Finished. I had always hoped it would be quick, and done while I was unconscious, passed out and unable to feel what was happening - or at least so that it wouldn't be able to drag me out of sleep enough to process that pain as real. Maybe it wouldn't be peaceful, maybe I'd dream about what was happening, but it'd be better than this - knowing it was real, feeling it all, having to come to grips with my death here and now.

No - not my death. Nope. The total change in the wind, my un-death. Because unless I somehow miraculously broke out of this one's grasp and cut it down, well, let's just say that this one holding me must've been anorexic or something in it's other life. But even if I could get out of it's grasp - could kill it before it did me in now - I'm not an idiot. They travel in groups - and this one is no exception. I don't stop to count how many are in this particular group, just know that they're still coming in the door - looking at me, a couple advancing as if they're going to challenge bones over here for my flesh.

It's a strange feeling you know, when these - monsters - are vying for the opportunity to devour your flesh, and you actually start placing your hopes on one of them doing it. Not because I don't want to keep on running, trust me I'd love to, but I just don't see myself surviving this situation. My gun is under the table still, just out of reach. I might be able to reach it if I put all my strength into pulling back on my arm, kicking off with my feet, and managed to focus enough to reach out and grab onto it. Which - trust me - I'm going to try, I just have to give myself a dangerous second to prepare for what's about to happen. Because everything that I'm telling you about - almost all of it at least - I knew would happen before I ever even began to try to wrench back enough for the weapon. So with that in mind - here we go with something I'd like to call:

The Desperate Final Actions of a Woman Choosing Death Over Infection.

_Take a deep breath in, grit your teeth, decide that it doesn't matter at this point if you're quiet or scream your head off, so you'll let yourself let loose with the screaming in pain instead of trying to muffle the sound tugging it's way from your throat. You're ready now. Pull. _

I listened to my own instructions, dug my heels into the ground with the best grip I could muster on the linoleum floor of the break room and pulled back. Well - not so much pulled back as I did throw my entire body back, put all my weight into the fall, kicking off the ground for momentum. The pain ripped through my shoulder, resonating throughout my entire body, and the scream followed right along after it. I wasn't free from the death grip the zombie had on my arm, which was one of those hang-ups that I had counted on. The noise of my arm popping out of the socket was enough of a distraction to the zombie though to save that second of letting pain control my mind be enough to end my life. My other arm (the only one I could use now, thanks to the sacrifice of the other) reached out, and I had just enough give for my fingers to brush the end of my gun. I curled my hand and felt the metal scrape my fingertips and slide a bit closer to my palm. Panic was setting in as I managed to feel the prickling of zombie breath hitting my hand, going in for the bite. I screamed again, lurched, and managed to close my palm about the butt of the 9mm.

_Now swing!_

Gun firm in my hand I tossed my body sideways, managing to lift the gun up enough and slam the side of it into the zombie's skull, knocking hungry teeth off course and effectively making it let go of it's grasp on my arm. I stumbled away from it as it started to advance, but this one was a goner. Cock the gun, pull the trigger. The bullet sunk into the skull easily from point blank range, the fragile bone giving way, shattering, but I don't focus on that. A few of the adventurous Zombies, that weren't afraid of a confrontation for the meat with the little one, should it prove not to be dead (yeah, I know that a skull shattering into a million pieces should be an unquestioned death, even for somebody who'd caught the Infection, but remember how stupid Zombies are. Most of them need more than a shattered skull to be certain that someone was dead) were already advancing.

_Live_

I pulled my arm up and quickly fired two bullets - sinking one bullet into each of the approaching zombie's head. One of them on the smallish side, another was one of the bigger zombies in the room, and yes. That was a mistake.

_Idiot. You aren't trying to live. You're trying to take out the small ones. You're trying to die here. Don't shoot the big ones, you don't have the bullets for that._

More zombies started pressing forward, more of a group mentality, they were on a race for the next one who would take possession of my body. I tried my best to pick out the smallest ones in the front, but the problem takes the form of the fact that the smallest ones are the quickest - not really fast - but they don't stumble as much when they move, and they can get past the bigger ones easier. The fact is, this gun doesn't have enough bullets to ensure my death. (Yeah - I know that it should only take one, and if I was smart - I would've made it quick and pulled that trigger, but when it comes down to it, I'm a baby. Knowing that I have to die is one thing, but stopping my actions and letting that really sink in is another thing altogether. I want to die doing something - fighting it - so sue me)

_You have the bullets in your bag. Which was ripped out from under the table mistaken for a person at first, since your scent was all over it, and then tossed away - way out of reach. If you could get to your rifle though, that'd be more bullets, a better chance. And the other hand gun too. Yeah, that'd be helpful._

My guns were still under the table, I lifted the gun in my hand and shot two more oncoming zombies before I dropped to the floor and shoved my feet against the floor to push firmly under the table, back hitting the wall. I had to drop the gun in my hand to reach for the rifle. I watch zombies drop to the ground to follow and twist the rifle in my hand to shoot them one at a time, but that position didn't work, because I couldn't see the sizes of each zombie well enough to stop myself from pulling the trigger on the bigger zombies as well as the little ones. I thought about going for the other handgun, but decided against that option, because at least with the rifle I have a second weapon to use. Normally I'd take both, obviously I'd thought about taking both, but I have one hand to work with, the other just sort of - hanging there. (And yes, if you were wondering - the movement with the shoulder that isn't in the right position - hurts. A lot. But I kept moving despite the pain - because at the end, you can do that. Move past the pain.) Rifle in hand I shoved my back against the wall, tossed forward, and made a wide sweeping arc to knock back the approaching zombies as best I could, enough to get to the mouth of the table and fire off a couple more shots.

Backfire of course was the killer. It kept knocking me back further under the table and I'd have to crawl back to place and combat oncoming zombies with that sweeping motion in front of myself. Gunshot after gunshot. Swing after swing. I wasn't focusing on how many were left, just how many I could take out. Soon enough though I was out of shells and I was left with the option of either giving up the rifle and going back under for my other gun, or fighting through with the rifle. I didn't know what to do - and I didn't have much time to think about it before another "hand" reached out and grabbed the useless arm (which didn't turn out to be all too useless to them it seemed) and tugged it roughly. The tug was successful in two ways; first it dragged me out from under the table and right into the thick of the oncoming zombies, second-it pulled another scream from my throat. And screams are like candy to these monsters. Seriously. You should see (again, maybe you have) how it makes them salivate. You can tell the newer zombies, not only by the fact that they resemble people more closely than the ones who have had the Infection longer, but because when you scream, they respond with a bit of a guttural noise - a _pleased _guttural noise - and it is the most terrifying noise that you'll hear in your life. Or at least one of them. (I know it seems ridiculous that I would correct myself on that now, that I would think about it, but I remember the day that Aaron broke his arm after climbing too high on the monkey bars - that screaming cry of his - now that was the most terrifying sound I've ever heard. This one will have to settle for being a far second. But a solid second at least.)

_He's gone Kate. Right now you need to focus._

I ignored the sound, brought back my rifle, and swung it like a baseball bat, right at the offending zombie's neck, and made contact with a sickening snap of a sound. It dropped my arm and I struggled to my feet, lifting the gun to swing again, when I was tackled from the side and knocked completely off balance. I fell and smacked my head off the table behind me on the way down. It was hard and the sound of the smack resonated inside my skull after I'd hit the floor. I couldn't really see straight for a moment, everything was blurry and doused in a blaring white light. I knew from the tightening of my throat that I had made a noise - figured it was more strangled whimper than scream, I don't know that I was even capable of a scream anymore at that point.

But still - they salivated - hovered over me, and I could only stare up at them, look into the face of death and watch it explode into a million pieces and rain down over me. Death was strange, this terrifying series of looking at one face looming over me, then the next, each one coming close and just shattering into darkness - black, falling onto me, seeming to consume me so fully.

_Death_.

It wasn't as much of a relief as I thought it would be. As scared as I was before - I thought when it happened, when I could stop running, there would be some peace there. But it was just this constant string of fear. The enemy coming again and again, closer. Black seeping over me like my own dark cloud. It seemed to weigh down on my limbs too, cling to me. It hurt to die, in a way that I didn't know it was going to, I thought it'd be faster than this - I thought - but no. The ringing in my ears was painful, and there was this pounding that I could hear, like it was coming from inside my head, a rhythm to it. Each pound came with a new weight, more black. It was the worst feeling in the world.

And then came the after.

Slowly, one by one, weight was lifted from my body, my lame arm was lifted and slowly taken to rest over my abdomen, and through clenched eyes, I could see a bit of white, blackness slowly wiped from my face, my eyes. I was free again, light as a feather, and in all my wildest dreams I never expected this - for all my sins I knew, if there was a god, I was in his doghouse. I wouldn't be allowed to ever come anywhere near his presence, I was as black as death itself had proven to be. But still - as soon as I opened my eyes I saw it.

_Heaven_.

He was drenched in sweat, hair hanging in clumps about his face as he leaned over me, black goo dripping from his hands as he tried to wipe them furiously on his jeans, which were filthy, but none of that mattered, because he had this full out smirk on his face as soon as I looked up at him, like he'd been waiting for me here forever. If I had known, I'd have come earlier, just to see it.

"Hey there Freckles." His voice is quiet, rough, and as he finally lifts a hand to run it across my cheek, I can feel each blister and callus, both familiar and new against my cheek.

"James." I couldn't hardly hear my own voice above the ringing in my ears, but somehow his seems clear as a bell. I manage to muster up a smile for him and try to take in a deep breath. "You - you're here…" Somehow - despite everything we'd done - we'd both made it here - to heaven. His arms slowly move again, winding about my body to lift me off the ground and press me against his chest. My arm falls to the side, once more useless, and it pulls. I hiss through my teeth against the pain and feel his responding kiss against my temple, soft and tender as he frees up a hand to draw my arm up once more.

"I'm here now. I got ya Freckles. Shhh… It's okay. I got ya." His voice is a soft mantra. I feel his hand stroking through my hair, his voice almost sounding worried as it brushes across the matted surface at the back - where I'd hit my head just before being torn apart by the zombies. It stung of course (which is weird right? I thought after you died it didn't hurt) but I thought that worry sounded so out of place.

Of course I was okay. I was in heaven. I was back in his arms again, where I'd always been safe.

I was safe.

I tried to talk to him again, tried to assure him that I was fine, that he was enough. I tried to tell him what I hadn't truly ever told him in life, but words just seemed too difficult. Slowly I felt another darkness tugging on me, pulling at me relentlessly and I knew - heaven had realized the mistake. Somehow I'd snuck in, and heaven was in the process of fixing that. Kicking me back out. I whimpered and tried to fight - but who could ever fight heaven's decision. I was in the process of thinking that horrible, sinful thought, of how to pull Sawyer along with me, when I felt his arms tighten and his head ducked, warm breath beating against my ear.

"Stay with me Freckles, come on. I'm right here.. I got ya. Kate!" Such Panic in his tone. "Don't close your eyes girl, just look at me. I-"

I'm sorry James.

I tried.

* * *

Next chapter up next week. From a brand new perspective. ;)

You know what I want from you guys.


	6. Intro part II

I have to apologize right up front for this - it's short. Technically it's another intro. I was going to make it a full fledged chapter, but I'll be lucky if I finish the rest of it by next weekend, so in the interest of keeping an update, this is sort of like a teaser, a test - because I've never written Sawyer before and to be honest, I'm not that good at it. Sawyer's chapters all come to you courtesy of my beta/best friend/own personal Sawyer. Seriously, I write something - she fixes it.

Disclaimer: I don't own LOST. Obviously things would've been very different if I had.

* * *

I'd never given up hope that she was alive out there somewhere. Freckles was a survivor, and if anyone had a chance at runnin' from these animals, it'd be her. That's what I got to believe that in order to keep on moving, keep on searching. Every bullet that left my gun, left in her name. Every step I took - well, you get the picture. I ain't much for romance, but it ain't about that. It's about surviving. And survival, well, that's a language I been speaking for my whole life long.

Still, I can't even begin to tell you how it feels now, to finally have her in my arms again. To see for myself that she had fought her way here. I'd followed my fair share of trails that ended up to not leadin' me to her. Trails that brought me to rottin' corpses and hordes of zombies to shoot down, but I never let it get to me. I couldn't dare. Hearing her scream, even though it damn well broke my heart, was what I needed an' what I'd been searching for all this time. It promised a living Kate. And as long as I got there real quick, she'd still be that way once I reached her.

I panicked at first, of cour', watching her slipping away like that. She was worse for the wear, but then again, I'm certain I wasn't exactly lookin' the part of prince charming. Then there was that gash at the back of her head, soakin' my hand in her blood. I tried keeping her conscious, but other than one little smile and a few mumbled words, she wasn't up for it. She went limp in seconds and I had to focus all my attention on the rise and fall of her chest to make out each breath she took - to make sure she was still takin' 'em at all. The next step was to check around the open wound for any of that icky, black shit - you know, the stuff that goes spewing from the zombie the second you blast it. Luckily, she was clean. No risk of infection there, so long as I covered it up and kept it clean. I gotta be a mess - sweating like a pig, melting in this heat - but the cleanest piece of a' me I could think of was the inside of my shirt. So that came off and was flipped inside out, folded up neatly - like a real Susie Homemaker. Bet Freckles'd be making fun of me for this if she weren't missin' her curtain call here. I placed the strip of material against the back of her head, tying the sleeves to hold it right in place.

I'd rather'd let her lie there, looking all pretty - 'cept for the grime an all - but this place was trashed, so we had to get moving. And seein' as how Freckles was clinging to her role as Sleeping Beauty I supposed right off that I was gonna have to deal with her need to be piggybacked around. She sorta flopped about a bit as I leaned over and haled her arms over my shoulders, I ain't the most graceful person in the world, so I'm sure it weren't a pretty sight, me fightin' to get her up on my back. Stubborn as ever. The both of us.

Trouble was, I got Freckles up there on my shoulders and then looked around, realizing I was gonna have to take something else too. Her rifle was there on the ground, easiest thing to grab, so that was comin' along. I know Freckles'd be ugly at me if I didn't take that bag that looked like she'd been toting it around for awhile, but then again, it ain't like I'm made a' hands. She'll have to deal with replenishing a stash later on, for now I got the only things important enough to bother tuggin' along. Freckles, her gun, my gun, and pockets full of ammo.

I took her out of the room, stepping around the bodies just tossed all over the place, and back out to the road, looking from one side to the other as I realized my next problem. I got Freckles - what the hell am I supposed to do now?

* * *

Please R'n'R, it really helps, especially writing these next couple chapters in a voice I'm not comfortable with.


End file.
